


set a place at the table

by theroadverytravelled



Series: a house a home [1]
Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Food, Friends to Lovers, Long-Distance Friendship, Pining, just a touch of coffeeshop au in chapter 2, this all began with my headcanon that warren is a culinary school dropout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24159142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroadverytravelled/pseuds/theroadverytravelled
Summary: He’d found a school clear across the country, wanting as always to get as far away from whatever versions of himself he was ready to shed, whatever versions of himself people were attached to. She’d stayed closer to home, college in a nearby city. He can’t quite recall when it stopped being enough — the letters she’d mail him with long rambling stories about her life (the ones he read every word of), the occasional care package covered in plant stickers, rare phone calls stolen between classes and shifts, texting every few weeks. The itch grew, and she kept popping into his head.
Relationships: Warren Peace/Layla Williams
Series: a house a home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803850
Comments: 12
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think this started from thinking how maybe Warren learned his way around a wok from his days as a restaurant busboy > what if he's the one who cooks in the relationship? > what if he went to culinary school?? but it was kinda too hoity toity for him? And then it somehow wound its way into Warren waking up to his feelings for Layla, when they're living in separate places and still only friends. 
> 
> This chapter starts in the time when Warren and Layla are already in an established relationship and flashes back to a short moment when they started dating and then back further than that to before they dated. The tenses shift to reflect Warren remembering from the present vs Warren reliving the moment as if it was the present, which I hope makes sense! Thanks for reading!
> 
> (the follow up to the fic is [see you round the bend.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24925801))

He’s the one who cooks, of the two of them. It’s not that Layla’s bad at cooking, per se. It’s more that she’s distractible. He’s also been the one in charge of fire safety in the house, more because of the number of oven mitts she’s absent-mindedly set down on the still-hot stove burners or the casseroles or cookies she’s forgotten in the oven than because of his powers. 

So Warren cooks. Layla helps with prep and dishes and actually growing most of the food he cooks with, but he’s the one that turns out their weeknight stir-fries and curries, their weekend lasagna, grilled veggies and burgers (lentil and bean patties for her, beef for him on special ocassions) when it’s warm enough out, soup for when she’s sick. He’s pretty good at it, if he does say so himself, and he likes doing it. He’s at ease in the kitchen, in any kitchen really, ever since his days at The Paper Lantern. He loves the order of putting together your mise en place, reading through a recipe like learning choreography, adjusting each step through all your senses, understanding the chemistry of one element interacting with another. He also loves the chaos of a hot pan, of the fire set on high, the excited boiling of salted water ready for pasta, the spatter of onions in oil. Loves all of it together. 

Layla thinks he’s a maestro, loves taking up precious counter space so she can sit and watch him, swinging her long legs and trying to distract him with questions, gently prodding him with comments about “Oh that smells so good!” and “What did you just put in? Looks amazing,” until he gets the hint and comes over with a spoon in his hand with a bite for her to taste. 

Back when they first started dating, she used to poke him a bit about why he left culinary school. Would watch him cook even then, not yet understanding why it didn’t work when it seemed like a good fit. She’d recall the way he’d describe it to her on the phone, the handful of times they’d talk on it in those years. How he loved everything he was learning, and how much he respected his teachers. The competitiveness that didn’t involve his powers at all, the way he could lean into that feeling of striving to be not just good, but the best at something that had nothing to do with genetics, with family history, with something out of his control. 

It was great for a year. Or it started out great. Then it started wearing him down. He was learning alongside good people, and then there were the assholes who treated busboys like they were invisible, the ones who had opinions about which cuisine was more legitimate than the others, who was worth what based on how many French words they could offhandedly drop into conversations. There wasn’t a best anymore, there was no ceiling to the competition, just more work. And his mentors would joke about the long hours, the late hours. Say goodbye to any life that’s not restaurant life, they’d said. 

He’d felt an old twinge then. He wanted too many things to walk so readily into something that would consume so much of him. Maybe that felt small to his peers, who all dreamed of owning 16 restaurants across the world, but Warren had learned at a really young age that what other people thought he should want didn’t matter at all compared to what he wanted for himself. 

When he’d finally told Layla that last part, pulled out of him like a stubborn baby tooth, she’d stared at him for a long time. He held her gaze, even though he felt peeled open by it, surprise and relief flooding in when she finally dropped her eyes to his hands, tugging one close to her. He had half a thought of pulling it back, a reflex based on the faded, vague memory of burning her on the steps of their high school, so long ago now. Even as he thinks to pull back the thought disappears, his palm opens like a lotus flower for her, and his heart picks up a bit more when she shifts closer to him. She traces the lines of his palm and he fights against closing his eyelids at the feeling of it. 

Layla looks up, her eyes soft and her smile bright. “Wouldn’t it be so weird if I could read futures? If that was my power?”

“I think that’d be too weird even for you, Hippie. Although. I heard there’s this old lady down in Florida who’s a super like that. Has gators for pets, can tell you what you’ll die of but not when.” 

She snorts. “Sounds like someone’s been talking to Zach.” 

“Well. I may have skimmed one of his many, many forwarded emails.” When she laughs at that, he can feel the smile spread on his face, helpless to stop it and no longer interested in hiding those things from her. Her smile in reply was even brighter somehow, and he remembers how much he wished then that he could tell her that one of the things he realised he wanted in those days dicing ten pounds of carrots everyday for the mirepoix, learning how to quenelle, remaking a dish five times because Chef said it didn’t taste right — one of the things he kept thinking about was her. Her at the end of a long day, her in a booth he could slide into, her opening the door to a house he could ride his bike to. 

He’d found a school clear across the country, wanting as always to get as far away from whatever versions of himself he was ready to shed, whatever versions of himself people were attached to. She’d stayed closer to home, college in a nearby city. He can’t quite recall when it stopped being enough — the letters she’d mail him with long rambling stories about her life (the ones he read every word of), the occasional care package covered in plant stickers, rare phone calls stolen between classes and shifts, texting every few weeks. The itch grew, and she kept popping into his head.

He had let that feeling steep, keeping distance from it while the rest of his life happened. Dropping out. Telling his mom. Finding a job. He’d tried a few different Chinese food places, but the strength of deja vu, the constant feeling that a certain redhead was going to walk through the doors — he went for a coffee shop instead. Reasoned that he needed some different experiences. 

It was the summer of her second year. He’d been out of culinary school for six months. She’d called him out of the blue, catching him just as his shift ended and he was packing up his things in the break room. 

“Hey hothead, what are your summer plans?” Her voice is cheery, that interminable pep in her step that used to baffle him, that he used to think meant she was superficial. It makes him laugh now, especially when he knows how much satisfaction Layla gets in proving other people wrong. 

“Practicing my tapdancing, most likely.” He takes a seat on one of the benches in the break room, doing a quick scan to check that his coworkers are elsewhere. 

“Oh my God, will you be putting on a show?” 

“There’s this annual talent show. Every year some tryhard with 60 backup dancers wins it. But this year, I’m coming for his crown.” 

Layla laughs, delighted. “You better save me a front row seat, Warren!” 

“Of course, Hippie. I’ll save you the whole front row.” 

“Oh I’m holding you to that. I’m aiming to be in your neighbourhood in — hmm, maybe a few weeks? A month? I don’t have all the details yet.” 

Warren pauses, letting her words sink in. “What are you talking about?” 

“That’s why I’m calling! I’m hitting the road this summer, and I wanna come visit you! I’m going to meet up with Will halfway, then after I see you I’ll go up north and catch Maj at her fancy art school, and Zach too. Ethan’s dying to come along but he’s going abroad with his family.” 

His mind races. It keeps tripping on the idea of her being  _here_ , where he is. He hasn’t even told her yet about dropping out, freezing on the right words, worried she’d be disappointed. Worried she wouldn’t be surprised at all. 

But Layla in the same city. In the same town. His town. Where he could see her in the flesh, share the same space and time. It’s a heady thought. 

“Hello? Warren? Are you still there?” 

“Yeah — sorry. I spaced out.” 

There’s a pause on the other line. He can imagine the small concerned furrow between her brows, vivid as anything. She used to look at him that way a lot. Maybe she still would. 

“I — I mean, if you don’t want me to — if you’re busy, that’s okay, you know? I’m still planning. Just an idea I had during my last semester. So. Just. Let me know. If you’re not into —”

“No. Layla…” He mentally kicks himself at the increasing doubt he can hear spreading through her voice. If she had this idea during her semester, she’s been planning and saving up for this for a while. Planning and saving up in part to see _him_. To see her friend. “I’m just surprised. Come. Of course I want you to come.” 

“Yeah?” The relief floods from her voice through the phone and into his own body. He runs a hand over his face, uses it to hide his small smile. 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh my God!! I’m so excited. Listen, I’ll text you details this week, okay? I’m still finalising my itinerary and everything. And don’t worry, I won’t impose at all, I just wanna see you whenever you’re free, and I can occupy myself the rest of the time. You won’t have to do any tour guide work you don’t want to do.” 

He chuckles into the phone. He wishes he could share with her the joke of her thinking him seeing her is going to be some kind of chore. What’s been steeping quietly in the background roars back into view, bubbling over like a brewing cauldron. It’s going to be a lot of different things, the twist in his gut tells him, but the last thing it’ll be is a chore. 

“Don’t plan too much solo time, I’m going to need help finessing my act.”

“Oh totally, I’m gonna help you take that tryhard down.” Her laugh is interrupted by some muffled sounds on the other end. “Oop, I have to go. But I’ll see you soon, okay?” 

“I’ll be counting the days, Hippie.” He manages to keep his voice even and dry, and when she laughs he knows she’s taking it for one of his usual deadpan jokes, indulging her and rolling his eyes at the same time. 

God. He really misses her. 

“Bye Warren.” 

“Bye, Layla.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter and the next, we're in full flashback mode, covering Layla's visit to Warren's town / place of work / apartment. I didn't really want to deal with any place names or geography for this one (I don't live in the States + was too lazy to world build lol) but if it helps I imagined Layla being around the West Coast whereas Warren was closer to Midwest/East Coast.

Warren’s startled by a pen hitting him square between the eyes. He’s entirely unsurprised to look up and see Jacob with his hand still in the air from the throw. The other man’s face is impassive as it usually is, most of it hidden under a bushy ginger beard. His small eyes are narrowed slivers as he studies Warren. 

“Reign it in, Peacenik. You’re givin’ me the heebs.” 

Warren doesn’t even know how to respond to that until Jacob steps up to the counter to retrieve his pen and tuck it back under the brim of his black beanie. It makes Warren look down and see the confetti he’s made from shredding three napkins in his hands. He curses as he sweeps up the mess, avoiding Jacob’s unnerving gaze. 

“Leave him alone, Jake.” Carmen’s voice sounds bored as she rolls in behind Warren, carrying a tray of fresh pastries to restock the front of house display case. But when Jacob lumbers away to clear a table in the corner, she drops the act, coming to rest an elbow on the counter and turning to Warren with an excited look on her face. 

“Is it today? Is she coming today?” She whispers enthusiastically, her thick lashed eyes wide as saucers behind her glasses. 

His face heats up. He had no plans to tell anyone that Layla was coming to visit. In fact, he had very clear plans to keep it a secret from any of his coworkers. But Carmen had caught him intently texting in the break room, a couple of different times, and this was rare enough that she cornered him in the kitchen one day and asked if everything was okay with his family, because she’d never seen him on the phone so much, and he was always — Carmen had waved a hand in front of her face, crossing her eyes and scowling exaggeratedly — looking so concerned. 

In his rush to tell her everything was (relatively) fine with his family she had managed to poke her way into the truth, uncovering that he was texting with an old friend from school who was coming to visit, and infuriatingly managing to read entirely too much — and too accurately — into his awkward silences and deepset frowns. It was a sore point for his pride that a person half his height could so easily browbeat this kind of information out of him. 

“Shut up, Carmen.” He waved her off without heat, turning away from her as if that would stop her perceptiveness. 

She moved to face him again, undeterred. She reached out to squeeze his forearms. “My lips are sealed,” she whispered solemnly. “And I’m sure it’s all gonna go great!” Carmen bounced on her heels, grinning wide. She flounced away before he could say anything but why bother anyway. Warren sighed, trying to shake off his fidgeting nerves, deciding to sort out the sugar and creamer station just for something to do. 

Why had he asked her to come meet him at the cafe? His shift is essentially over, and they weren’t going to stay, so they could’ve met literally anywhere else. Nostalgia? Yearning for the days of her at her regular booth at The Paper Lantern? He rolled his eyes at himself. 

It was a couple hours after lunch; the cafe wasn’t overly crowded but it was busy enough, humming with regulars, a table of newbies in the corner celebrating something. She’d told him when her bus was coming in; all shift his phone buzzed with photos of the street signs she was passing telling her how much further to go. He’d wanted to go pick her up at the station, would’ve begged off work for it. Until the doubt crept in, warning him off from being too eager. He suddenly feels the familiar crackling near his finger tips, the flashing heat up and down his palms. Knows well enough now to move his hands away from any objects and stuff them into his pockets, because better any flames be closest to him than anyone else. 

“Yo Peace Corps, your 3 o’clock is here.” 

Layla’s at the counter, turning as Jakob calls out to him. She’s wearing high waisted soft green pants, a familiar looking crop top with GIVE PEACE A CHANCE on it in rainbow fabric paint, a cosy patchwork jacket two sizes too big bundled around her. Her hair’s in a long braid that drapes just so over her shoulder. And her smile immediately takes over her whole face. His insides feel cracked open like an egg. 

He’s got an armful of her in seconds, she’s giggling loud in his ear, standing on her tip toes with her arms tight around him, and all he can think to do is breathe her in, inhale that bouquet of bergamot and vanilla that hasn’t really changed since high school. People so often think she’d smell floral — rose or lavender or jasmine — and it's a secret joy for him that he knows better than that. 

She breaks away from him, cradles his face in her hands. “Hi!! I can’t _believe_ I’m seeing you — in the flesh! Hi.” 

“Hey, Hippie. I like the shirt.” 

Her eyes light up, nothing but mirth. “I wore it for you!” 

Behind her he sees Jacob and Carmen openly staring at them both, Jacob’s face focused but neutral while Carmen’s grin could split her skull clean in two. Warren coughs into his fist self-consciously, gently lowers Layla’s hands from his cheeks, shooting her an apologetic half smile. “Let me get my stuff and we can get out of here.” He ducks away from her to get behind the counter where he’s stowed his stuff under the register. He studiously avoids making eye contact with his coworkers. 

“Oh are you sure? I don’t mind staying here — this is where you work now right? I don’t want to say it’s nicer than the Lantern, because that feels disloyal but,” Layla drops her voice to a dramatic whisper, cupping a hand to her mouth as if she’s hiding what she’s about to say, “It’s way nicer than the Lantern.” 

“We’ve got the best muffins this side of town!” Carmen crows. “We’ve actually got some samples we could —”

Warren has his jacket on and his bag slung over his shoulder and he reaches for Layla’s hand so he can pull her quickly to the door. 

“Oh!” 

“Peace out, Peacenik.” 

“Maybe the muffins another time — bye!” 

Warren doesn’t even bother looking back, holds up two fingers in a wordless parting salute, and only lets himself exhale once he hears the bell of the cafe’s front door behind them and they’re at least half a block down the street. 

“Whoa whoa whoa, slow down.” Layla tugs at his hand, coming to a complete stop to force him to stop too. When he turns to her, she’s got her arms crossed, hip jutting out, and a deeply skeptical raised eyebrow aimed at him like an arrow. It's such a familiar sight, and one he hasn’t seen in so long, that he very nearly hugs her again. 

“What.” 

“What was that? Why the big rush to get me away from your friends?” 

“I wasn’t — did you hear Jacob say “Peace out, Peacenik”?” 

Layla rolled her eyes, trying not to smile. “I mean, I was gonna ask what that was about later.“ Her face gets serious again. “Is this that thing where you think you’re too cool for the people who want to be your friends, and you keep them at arms length for no good reason so you can keep up the lone wolf act?” 

Warren blinks at her. “Holy crap, Hippie — how have you gotten even more intense?” 

“Evading a personal question through deflection.” In response to his steady stare, Layla manages to look both a little sheepish and a little smug. “I took a psychology elective last semester. Now come on, why didn’t you want me to check out where you work?” 

He definitely should’ve just picked her up from the station. He hasn’t even figured out how to tell her about culinary school. When he sees that furrow start to form between her eyebrows, he knows he’s gotta salvage this and quick. It’s way too early in her visit for her to be pulling her worry face out on him. 

“It’s nothing major, relax. If we had stuck around — Carmen and Jacob would’ve grilled you for hours probably, trying to get high school stories out of you about me. You can come by there any time while you’re here, let Carmen feed you all the muffins. There’s this thing on the menu you’d probably like — it’s got hummus and kale chips and pine nuts. Kind of a bestseller, actually.” 

Her body language softens, she’s biting her lips against a smile but it’s very clearly there. Warren blows out a breath, going for broke. 

“You can meet all the other guys who work there too, probably. Jenny, and Miles. And Samira — she’s the head chef, and she owns the place.” 

He gets an armful of her again, and this time he lets himself cling. “I’m so happy to see you, hothead.” Her voice is muffled in his shoulder, and he squeezes her a little bit tighter. “I’ve missed you a lot.” 

Warren’s mouth goes dry, a flock of birds rioting in his chest, and he wonders if he can pin this feeling down to keep for when she — for after. “Me too,” he manages. “I’m glad you’re here.” He gives her a quick kiss on the side of the head before detaching, reaching up to let down his hair so he has something to hide behind a little bit. Layla watches him, fond. 

“So where are you taking me, then?” 

He gestures for her to walk ahead of him, gentleman-like. “There’s a plate of the best vegan loaded fries in town with our names on it. And you can tell me all about the terrifying new things you’ve learned in this psychology class.” 

“And give away all my secrets? Do you think I’m that easy?” 

Warren shakes his head, smiling. “Wouldn’t ever dream of underestimating you, Hippie.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Layla slides back into his life as easily as she’d done it the first time. Easier, even. Over that first plate of fries, he listens to her talk about college — the classes she’s taking, her professors, the assigned books that lead her to new books and even newer books to read, her classmates, and the new friends she’s making. Her life is full, as it’s always been, but full now of things that are new to her and him both. She volunteers at a community garden and the food bank they work with. She’s in about five different clubs on campus, and he imagines the terror she strikes in the heart of the other college kids with her tenacity and clipboard of petitions. 

She tells him about visiting the Grand Canyon with Will a couple weeks before, shows him all the pictures of it on her phone. They get Thai food to go and walk back to his place to have dinner, and she tells him about the long bus rides that have taken her from home to here, all the journalling she’s been doing, the walks and the hikes, all the new kinds of plants and landscapes she’s been seeing — big oaks, rolling fields of wheat, desert scrub.

His contributions to the conversation are smaller, despite her prodding — just like old times. He focuses on telling her about the café and working there, his coworkers — his friends there, all the things they get up to. Jacob’s rock band that he’s seen a few different times. Him and Jenny reading the same sci-fi novel and trading thoughts about it when they share a shift. Cycling with Miles on quiet Saturday mornings. He sees her dial up the friendliness when he introduces her to his roommates, ignores the quirked eyebrow Evie directs at him while Layla talks a mile a minute, ignores too the spark he sees in Darius’s eyes as he nods and smiles at whatever story she’s telling. 

He grabs the plates and cutlery as quickly as he can so he can shoo her out of the kitchen, away from his roommates, and into his room. When he closes the door, he gets one breath before a new wave of nerves emerge. She’s in  _his room_. Layla absentmindedly shucks her patchwork jacket — the one she tells him her grandma made her — and lays it gently on his bed as she looks around. 

He’d spent a couple hours last night after work tidying up, his room cleaner than it’d been in months (Evie passing by the door to silently peek in with her accursed raised eyebrow). He’s been thinking about her being in town for weeks; some nights he’d stay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling — his mind racing from thinking about what it would be like. 

It didn’t prepare him for the reality of her being in here, cooing over his small philodendron on the window sill, eyes sparkling back at him in disbelief as she fingered the leaves. Watching the plant flutter and expand towards her, like seeking out the sun, makes his stomach twist in a funny way. 

“Samira gave me that one. Said I was good with the plants at the café, so I could take this one home, if I wanted.” He shrugs as casually as he can manage, turning to his little desk to get their dinner together so he doesn’t have to see her expression, and so she won’t be able to see his. Having that plant in here has always reminded him of her. 

Layla merely hums. She moves around him, gently tracing her fingers over the spines of the books in his small bookcase, peering at the very small collection of photos and postcards stuck up on the wall by the door, smiling when she spots something she recognises. 

When he’s plated up her tofu green curry and rice and his pad thai he realises their seating options in here are limited — it’s the floor or…the bed. He can hear Darius watching TV outside in the living room, doesn’t feel much like taking her to their tiny breakfast bar and disrupting the privacy they have right now. He makes an executive decision, pulls an old blanket out of his small closet and lays it out on top of his covers. 

“Oh no, Warren — but I don’t want to spill and like, get your bed all dirty.” 

“Hush it, Hippie. My bed can handle it.” Her cheeks go a little pink at that, and he’s torn between feeling pleased and feeling embarassed. She gently toes off her shoes so she can pick her feet up and sit cross legged on the blanket he’s laid out. She takes the plate from him, waits for him to get settled against his pillows, his own legs and socked feet stretched out a foot away from her before she tucks in. 

“Oh my God, this is so good!” 

“I’m making sure you get all the good stuff while you’re here.” 

“Ooh, does that mean you’re going to cook for me? Come on — you have to!” 

“Do I now?” 

“Your old friend’s only come all the way from across the country to see you, surely that merits one homecooked meal. From the master chef himself!” 

He picks at his noodles, his smile half-hearted. “For the umpteenth time, I am not a master chef.” 

“Warren, you’re really saying you wouldn’t cook me something? Not even if I said pretty please?” She stretches the syllables of the last word, her face turning very young, and that gets him laughing. 

“Okay, Hippie. Alright. One meal. It’ll be box mac and cheese.” 

“You know I would accept that.” Layla’s unbothered, and he knows that if he did make and serve her a Kraft dinner she’d tell him how delicious it was and how grateful she was and eat every bite through a smile. It fills him with a wild urge to make her a five course meal. “Okay, you can figure out the menu later — tell me _everything_ about school! You’ve said like, two words about it all day. Will I get to visit while I’m here? Meet your classmates? Do you think I can sneak it to the kitchen while you guys learn stuff and cook things? Cause I think I could do it, I’d be so quiet and stay out of the way, you wouldn’t even know I was there!” 

_When has that ever happened, Layla?_ He thinks affectionately. He also knows, with a lump in his throat, that he’s put everything off too late, painting himself into a corner. And he needs to tell her. 

“Wait, what’s wrong?” He frowns at her, seeing it mirrored on her own face. “Your face just did something really complicated. Are you okay?” 

Warren sighs, heaves himself off the bed to put half eaten pad thai back on his desk. He’s lost his appetite. When he turns around, Layla is still frowning and holding her own plate out so it can join his. He takes it from her and sets it down, sits back down on the bed, closer to her.  _Just say it_. 

“I’m not at culinary school anymore. I dropped out. At the end of last year.” 

She gasps softly, bringing her hands over her mouth for a brief moment. “Wait, what?! Why? What happened?” 

He doesn’t look at her, picks at the lint on the blankets. “It stopped — I don’t know, it didn’t feel right anymore, after a while. I stopped wanting to be there. I couldn’t see myself finishing it, moving towards…whatever was supposed to be next.” On the windowsill, the philodendron droops slightly, a single leaf drying up and curling in on itself. He turns to look at her, and she’s got confusion and sadness warring on her face. He can sense she doesn’t understand. But he’s not explaining it too well to her, probably. 

“And why didn’t you tell me before?” Her voice is small, hesitant. His fingers dare to tug lightly on a loose thread at her knee. He can’t look her in the eyes anymore, but the words he’s been holding back come out easier than he expects. 

“I was scared about what you’d think of me. I didn’t want to disappoint you.” 

“Warren. That makes me so sad.” 

The air between them becomes very heavy, and she doesn’t stop looking at him — her eyes dark and clouded and a little wet, her mouth pinched tight and working against something she’s figuring out to say. He feels pinned down by it, unable to look away, agitation fidgeting in his chest. He fists the fingers of the hand furthest away from her in the sheets, just for something to grip on to. 

Finally, Layla shakes her head and her heavy sigh allows Warren to exhale the breath he's holding. She swings her legs out and stands up, starting to pace. 

“Disappointed in you…I —” She gives him a searching look from a few feet away, and suddenly his fingers itch to grab her wrist and bring her back close to him. He can feel the heat notch up from the centre of his palms, pulsing outwards to the tips of his fingers, and quickly he gathers his hands, crossing his arms and tucking them firmly against his sides. 

“Warren. I didn’t think you needed to hear this from me, but I’m so proud of you.” Layla’s eyes are shining, her voice sincere. “You’ve got these people around you — your friends here. This apartment, the café. The you I met way back in freshman year probably wouldn’t even recognise you right now. You’re living out here on your own and taking care of yourself. You’re doing fine.” She moves back to the bed, tugs his arms away from him like she hasn’t seen him hurl fireballs from them, grasps a hand in both of hers. He wills his whole body to cool down, thinks of an icy tundra, a cold lake, big drifts of snow. 

“If you felt like culinary school wasn’t right for you, I trust that. I’ve never, ever seen you do anything you didn’t want to do, so if you made that decision then I know it’s for reasons that make sense for you.” She smiles, and it’s a little sad around the edges but no less sincere. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel you could tell me. That I might judge. All I want to do is be supportive. If…if you can let me do that.” 

“Hippie, you’re killing me here.” He pulls her in for a hug, hiding his face as quickly as possible so she doesn’t see the complicated thing he’s sure it’s doing now. The feeling of her close to him is a relief, and he focuses on her perfume, letting all her meaningful words skate just oh so lightly on the surface of his consciousness. Because if he lets them sink in right now, with her here, he’s going to absolutely lose it. 

Warren takes a deep breath, does his damnedest to keep his voice even. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It wasn't you. It was…me being ridiculous.” _I was just scared. It wasn’t about you. You didn’t do anything wrong_. 

She rubs his back in reply, wordless for a rare moment. He’s so glad she finally knows. It feels like the last piece of it, the story of him and culinary school. It feels like — he’ll never say this out loud to anyone, but it feels like a blessing. That she’s okay with it. That she thinks he’ll be okay. 

“You know what you can do, to make it up to me?” Layla pulls away and grins at him, the mischief in her eyes blatant and giving away everything. Warren rolls his own eyes. 

“One meal. We already agreed on this.” He adds more grumble in his voice than he feels, but he shoots her a small smile, a poor substitute for all the things he wants to say to her that sit paralysed in his throat. He clears it. “You know, you were wrong before.” 

She raises an eyebrow in response, squaring up her shoulders and ready for a challenge. It makes his smile bloom a little bigger. 

“You’ve seen me do plenty of things I didn’t want to do, because you’re always the one making me do them.” 

Her jaw drops open and she gapes in both shock and mild offense before it all coalesces into a big hearty laugh. She shoves his shoulder playfully. 

“Oh Warren. Oh sweet summer child. My naive boy.” He swats her hands away as she tries to patronisingly stroke his cheek, and also to distract her from his blush. 

“See, you’re all mixed up. You  _wanted_ to do all those things. You just didn’t know it yet.” 

Well now. He feels his heart flip over in his chest, manages a sheepish smile at Layla laughing loud at having won the argument, lets it infuse the whole room. He watches her flop back onto the bed, smiling big, sees the new leaves of the philodendron behind her touching the top of his window frame. He can feel this moment already turning into a memory, feels it slip itself between the pages of a book in his heart.  


It’s how he can look back on it so clearly all these years later, when he no longer has to yearn to have Layla down the road from him instead of several hours and modes of transportation away. Because she’s right here, humming in the bedroom they share, her freshly washed hair curling at her shoulders as it dries. The memories in the following pages track the path of that yearning manifesting into something else, the image of his future taking shape like a vase growing from a lump of clay under his own hands, getting ready for the kiln. Earth and fire together. 

But he doesn’t have time to go further into this book. Not just now as he’s busy preparing a pot of broccoli cheddar soup for dinner. He’d been thinking of pasta initially, but then Layla had come in with a basket of just harvested broccoli from the garden, mentioning the loaf of sourdough she’d picked up earlier, and how the evenings had felt a little chillier. 

Never one for one hint when she could drop five, his Layla. 

He feels her hands on his waist while he’s at the stove, feels her try to peek from above his shoulder and not being able to fully reach. 

“You could just stand next to me, you know.” He says, shuffling just a little bit to make more space for her. She fills it up, grins at him before peering over into the bubbling pot. 

“Oooh, how’s that tasting, chef?” 

Warren pulls out a tiny scoop of it in the shallow bowl of the wooden spoon he’s been stirring with, blows on it gently before holding it out for her. She tastes it, her hand landing lightly on his wrist, and he watches a smile spread over her face, like he’s done a million times before. Like he’ll do a million times more. 

“Oh that tastes so cosy, warms you up from the inside.” 

He shakes his head a little, smiling himself as he turns back to the soup, tries to imagine his old instructors back at culinary school tasting something and calling it cosy. He tastes it himself, watching as Layla pulls out bowls and spoons, and the serrated knife for the sourdough. 

Needs a bit more salt, and he thinks he’ll drizzle some olive oil over it before serving. But it does taste cosy. Tastes a little bit like home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really a meditation on a small handful of moments, and I almost didn't post it because it felt TOO small. But a pining Warren figuring out his feelings in the face of Layla's irrepressible CARE and JOY was too tempting to give up. PLUS Domestic!Warren who cooks meals for his person?? I had to. Thanks for reading!


	4. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t make her box mac and cheese. 
> 
> A bit of Layla POV and the meal that Warren makes her on the last night of her visit.

He doesn’t make her box mac and cheese. The apartment smells amazing when she arrives, and she’s a little stunned to find Warren dressed in pressed grey slacks and a crisp white Oxford with the sleeves rolled up, underneath a no-nonsense navy apron. His hair’s tied back, neat and tidy, just like it was at the café. Just like it usually was at The Paper Lantern. Layla suddenly feels thankful she decided on  [a dress](https://www.seamwork.com/catalog/kenedy) , as simple as it was, instead of the jeans and sweater she had considered before leaving her hostel. 

“Wow, look at you!” 

“You look really nice.”

He ducks his head, shy and smiling, before stepping aside so she can come in, and she busies herself with taking off her coat and putting her bag down. He goes back to the kitchen to fuss over something on the stove, and when she looks past him to the dining table set for two, a red tablecloth spread neatly over the not-that-sturdy looking plywood table, a single sunflower standing tall in a glass bottle between the plates. She feels a lump rise in her throat at the sight of it. When she turns back to the kitchen she catches Warren looking at her, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“Is it — did I overdo it?” 

“Oh my god, no! Warren! This is amazing? I’m just.” She shakes her head, feels her own smile spreading on her face. “It all looks great, I’m speechless.” 

“With you Hippie, that feels like a cause for alarm. Anyway, you haven’t tasted anything yet, so manage those expectations a little bit.” 

“I already know it’s going to taste great.” 

He moves past her with two bowls in hand, and makes sure she sees his eyes rolling, and she rolls her eyes right back. She takes a seat at the head of the table as he gestures her to, inhales the smell of the rich brown broth in the bowl he’s set down, and feels hunger and expectation bloom in her stomach. Warren sits down next to her, but jumps right back up to untie his apron and put it on the kitchen counter, and when he sits down a second time, she can tell he’s having a hard time looking at her even though he’s itching to, probably to check her reaction to his food. She feels a warmth and understanding spread through her, and she feels so happy to be here with him, to have made this trip. She reaches out to squeeze his hand. 

“I can _not_ tell you how excited I am to eat everything you have to put in front of me, but more importantly, you have to know how much I appreciate all this effort. I was not kidding about mac and cheese! _Anything_ you’d made I would’ve eaten no question. Happily. All this — napkins??” She shakes a napkin right in his face, laughs when he laughs. “I’m floored.” 

Warren looks down at his bowl, smoothing his own napkin out over his lap, but he’s smiling. 

“It’s just soup and a main. And a little dessert. Nothing major.” 

Layla bites down on her bottom lip to stop herself from saying anything, choosing instead to take her first spoonful of soup. It’s french onion, and it tastes like heaven. It warms her to her toes, and she delights in the feeling of her spoon sinking through the cheese covered sourdough toast, that perfect mouthful of crispy gone soggy. She closes her eyes, and she knows Warren is watching her. 

“Super not major. Super not Michelin star fancy French restaurant level soup. Super not super delicious.” When she opens her eyes, he’s got his lips pressed together, twisted in an effort to hold back a smile. She keeps her eyes trained on his as she keeps eating, until finally he breaks her gaze and tucks into his own bowl. 

It’s her last night before she catches the bus tomorrow heading up north to see Maj and Zach. She’d spent the last five days journalling at Warren’s café, or walking around town with her earphones in, just soaking in her music and the good weather. Warren had brought her to thrift shops, the little art gallery where the owner greeted him by name, the rundown municipal council building with a beautifully maintained garden, and even brought her to walk past his old culinary school. They’d caught Jacob’s band playing a small gig in a dive bar, split more late night fries at a shabby diner Warren swears has great hashbrowns and pretty decent coffee. 

The hours filled themselves, and where Layla had been worried before she came that the distance and time would have left them with too many stops and starts, as the days went by filling and passing the time next to Warren felt easy as breathing. If someone sliced this short week out of time, she feels sure she could find a way to drop it neatly into her life back home. 

The first time she has this thought, she’s watching Warren behind the counter at the café, tea towel slung over a shoulder as he makes a cup of coffee for a waiting customer. When he looks up and meets her eyes, smiling, she feels her heart trip over another thought, which is that she would very much like it if this  _was_ her life back home. If somehow there and here merged, so the diner could be next to her favourite secondhand bookstore, and the community garden could be across from the art gallery, and the café could be a short walk from her campus, so Layla could walk up to the counter and order a soy chai latte from Warren. Wait for him to end his shift, have him come over to her dorm room to watch a movie, ride on the back of his bike through the streets she knows, split the vegan loaded fries and then get the bubble tea she likes, bring him to her favourite tree on the hiking trail she goes to when she wants to get away from campus. 

Warren clears the bowls, brings out the main course: seared brown crumbles of tofu, crisped mushrooms and bright green vegetables nestled on a bed of creamy, savoury-salty miso polenta. It tastes even better than the soup, and Layla smiles and smiles and smiles, watching Warren watching her, the air in the room fizzing like bubbles and something inside her fluttering like ruffled feathers. 

The thing is — Layla knows this feeling well. Wanting Warren. It first flickered to life freshman year when he’d taken time from his shift to sit with her, however begrudgingly. It visited her again in her junior year, when she’d broken up with Will and Warren was near graduation. It visited her at the going away party they held for him at the Lantern, which he pretended to hate. It went away when he was on his gap year, travelling across South and Central America. It went away when she was with her first boyfriend after Will, a non-super with dimples with a black lab who she met at the vet when her family cat caught a cold. When Warren came back right before she started college, right before he moved away to start culinary school, it felt like the wanting might come back. But they were good at being friends, and that was a hard won thing she didn’t take for granted. She also started to think — what does Warren want?

Because Warren wanted to take a year off and travel to new places, and he did that. He wanted to learn more Spanish, so he did that, would add little phrases in the sporadic postcards he would send them, send her. He wanted to move far away from Maxville, so he did. He wanted to learn to cook, so he applied to culinary school. He wanted to quit culinary school, so he did. If he’d wanted Layla at any point during all this...well. 

So she made some decisions. There were so many other things she wanted — to learn all the new things, meet new people at her school, make new friends, keep in touch with her old friends, go on dates, keep fighting for the environment, keep fighting for it with other people, help, write, write better, level up her powers, get better at horticulture and botany, grow. When her life grew bigger, it became easier to see that old wanting as a relic. Something to be left behind like Sky High. 

“Still got room for dessert, Hippie?” 

Layla leans back in her chair, hands folded over her pleasantly full stomach, and Warren smiles down at her as he stands with their empty plates. 

“Could we split and share? Please?” 

“Sure. Want to take your digestion process over to the couch, then?” 

“Oh God, yes, excellent idea.” 

Dessert is vanilla ice cream — the good kind, with little flecks of vanilla bean in it — sprinkled over with fresh cherries, chopped hazelnuts and salted caramel. One bowl, two spoons. She doesn’t even bother saying that cherries and hazelnuts are her favourite, that she’s always preferred caramel over hot fudge, because Warren clearly knows, but she nudges his shoulder with hers all the same. It’s a perfect cap to the meal. 

And the thing  _is._ The thing. 

This is a date. Isn’t it? The thrift shop, the art gallery, the dive bar, the municipal council garden, the diner. They were a little bit like dates, like maybe 50%. Maybe even 75%. And the way he’s been stealing glances, clearing his throat before his sentences, the way his hands hover just around her elbows, the small of her back, her hips. The  _look_ he’s been giving her. The amount of looking, to begin with! She’s not sure she knows what it’s all about, but it buzzes in the back of her mind. Familiar. And the wanting slides back in next to her, like it never left. 

And it doesn’t feel juvenile, or old. It doesn’t feel rusty. It feels  _real._ It feels alive and present, and real. 

She insists on doing the dishes and he concedes only if he can help her dry them so they stand side by side in front of a sink full of suds, yellow rubber gloves on her hands. 

“So, what’s the plan for you?” 

“I’m going to dry things of the same category together so I can put them away in big groups, and I think I’ll start with the glasses and small bowls.” 

“Warren, be serious.” There’s no heat in her voice, and her face is neutral but she can feel the words sink in for him as he goes quiet beside her, his hands moving on automatic. 

“I’m going to keep working, keep saving money. I’ve — I’ve thought about another degree. Going back to non-culinary school. ” 

“Yeah?” 

“But I don’t really know what I’d want to study.” 

She hums as she scrubs at a plate. She thinks she can understand that. In her mind, Warren can be anything. Take up law. Study economics. Get into woodworking, carpentry. Major in philosophy. She likes that her brain can adapt to whatever form he decides to shift into. But he’s got to decide on one first. 

“What would you like your life to look like, in the future? What do you want in it?” 

He doesn’t look at her, turns away to stack four bowls neatly on a shelf. “Layla, I — I haven’t figured it out. Not properly.”

“But you will though. Eventually.” 

“You sure about that? 'Cause I’m not.” And for the first time that night, his voice is dark, bitter. It recalls old memories of a younger Warren full of rage and resentment, grappling with a mantle forcibly thrust upon him. Layla stopped flinching at that voice years ago, but it still makes her sad to hear it. She keeps scrubbing at another plate. 

“Of course I’m sure. It’ll take time. And work. And you need to make space to think about it so _you_ can be sure.  Also , you need to trust in yourself a bit more.”

He puts the dish towel down and faces her full on, crossing his arms and leaning his hip against the counter. His smile is rueful, and there’s that  _look_ again. Something deep in the eyes — a little like wonder. A little like something else. 

“That’s all, huh?” 

“That’s  _all,_ Warren.” She beams at him, and when their eyes meet she feels the moment they’re in stretch and wrap around them. She suddenly has to work not to let her eyes fall anywhere else on his face, and as much as she feels bad for thinking it, she does. The moment shimmering between and around them makes her brave enough to do it. 

_Figure out that you want me back._

His eyes fall to her lips for one second, and then the moment is broken just as quickly as he clears his throat, uncrosses his arms, and turns his back on her with the plates she’s washed, wiping them dry before putting them next to the bowls. 

It’s not a triumph or defeat, but it lodges under her skin like a grain of sand. She shakes her head clear, goes back to finishing the dishes. Peels the gloves from her hands, and gives him a quick hug with a matching laugh. He receives her, squeezes her tightly for one moment. Two. 

When she gets on the bus the next morning, waving at him from her window as it starts to move, she knows she’s carrying something new away. The smallest weight, not even (yet) the size of an idea. The size of hope. A seed. She’ll carry it to Magenta and Zach, carry it back with her as she makes her way home. 

She’ll wait and see what grows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe I started out writing this SURE he'd kiss her at the end of it? Lolololol then by the time they got to dessert I was like oh no wait these dummies need to do some more YEARNING. Hoping to do more Layla POV some time soon! Thanks again for reading <3


End file.
